


première gymnopédie

by eliottamoureux



Series: 1940s AU [2]
Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Falling In Love, Love Confessions, M/M, a quiet night in, many many kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23042404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliottamoureux/pseuds/eliottamoureux
Summary: ‘Let us blend our souls as one,Hearts’ and senses’ ecstasies,’With every beat, every ebb and flow of the poem, Lucas takes a careful step closer.‘Evergreen, in unisonWith the pines’ vague lethargies.’
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Series: 1940s AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1648951
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62





	première gymnopédie

**Author's Note:**

> here i come with yet another one-shot-turned-weird-disjointed-nonlinear-AU !! this was another one that i just _couldn't_ give up on. this is also one of the softest things i've ever written— nothing even remotely resembling angst in here, just two boys confessing their love.
> 
> the song lucas plays is the fic's namesake, [satie's _première gymnopédie_ (performed by alistair mcgowan in this video!)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6YaMNjNGCRQ) i know it's super overdone/overplayed, but both the name and the tone of it fits in quite well here.
> 
> the poem eliott reads is [verlaine's _in muted tone_](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/55033/in-muted-tone). he was a hugely popular poet during the late 19th/early 20th century, and was known for— among other things— explicit poetry about relationships with other men. i think he's someone a 1940s eliott would have quite liked.

The large, high windows are marvelous for good weather. The entire apartment is filled with light in the early morning— it’s truly a beautiful thing to wake up to, most days. Now, though, the rain can be heard as it pours, through those same windows, left open, a portal back outside to the torrential downpour of the Parisian autumn. Rather than closing it, though, Eliott goes directly toward them, looking out at the shine that the rain brings to everything it touches. A moment later, he feels a presence beside him, and when he turns, his gaze meets Lucas’. They stand there for a beat, wonderfully silent, save for the sounds of the city outside.

“Petrichor works wonder on the senses.” Eliott says, trying to make small talk, “Do let me know if you get too cold, though.” He watches Lucas as he nods, but then his eyebrows furrow shortly after.

“‘Petrichor?’”

“The smell of the rain— well, more specifically, the smell of rain on dry soil.” He found it in a book somewhere, when he was a boy. He remembers tugging on his father’s sleeve, asking what it meant. He remembers his father leafing through the old dictionary that Eliott got an immense amount of use of during his formative years, triumphantly reading the definition out to a young Eliott and his mother.

He remembers that childish wonder, and sees it mirrored on Lucas’ face.

“Oh my,” The look on Lucas’ face is priceless. Eliott would photograph it, if he could. “I didn’t know there was a word for such a thing.” The way Lucas smiles in this moment is a careful, private thing. It feels like a secret, just for the two of them. One that Eliott wants to keep safe.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Eliott asks, looking back out at the quiet night, reveling in the cool breeze on his face. “Comes from the English. They have such beautiful and peculiar words.”

“So does French.” 

“Well, yes, but we take quite a few good ones from English.”

“Like what?”

“Hm..” Eliott runs through all of the most interesting words he knows, trying to find the right one. Even though they made their first impressions weeks ago, he still feels the need to be impressive to Lucas, still feels like he has to get everything right. “Serendipity, from ‘Serendip,’ an ancient name for Sri Lanka, in Asia.”

“And that one is…?”

“Stumbling upon good things accidentally.” That brings their attention back toward one another. The grin that earns from Lucas turns Eliott’s insides to jelly. He marvels at Lucas’ power, able to get such a reaction from him with such a simple look.

Though he’s not sure if it’s a power on Lucas’ part, or a weakness on his own.

“I like that one.”

“Me too,” Eliott says, remembering that night, the first that they shared. “Fitting, I think, for us.”

“Mm.” Never in Eliott’s life had he ever experienced what he would refer to as a _reverie._ Daydreams, sure, but there’s something about reverie that has always seemed… deeper, to him.

Now, though, he can’t think of a term more fitting for the way he feels with Lucas.

“Oh, goodness— I haven’t even given you the grand tour yet.” Eliott yanks himself out of the silence that had fallen over him and Lucas. He turns around, contemplates, says “Far too distracted by the serendipitous petrichor, and whatnot,” under his breath. That earns him a laugh from Lucas, full-bodied and free, and it makes him so fond that his chest aches. “The bathroom is just behind this door,” which would look like a closet, if you didn’t know what lay beyond. “And otherwise, everything I own is in this room.” He gestures around, to the kitchenette against one wall; to the grand piano that sits, unplayed and dusty against the opposite wall; to the bed in one corner; to his wall of shelves containing many, many books— so many that they’re stacked two books deep on some shelves, with piles on the floor. Lucas follows his motions, before walking slowly over to the shelves.

“There’s so many.” He says simply, as if he’s never seen such a quantity of books in his life. He runs his fingers tentatively along the spines on one shelf, before turning back to Eliott. “Where did they all come from?”

“Oh, you know, friends, teachers,” He thinks back to one of his last literature teachers, the way she gently pushed a few small paperbacks into his hands when class had finished for the year and said _I want to read books like these from you someday, Eliott._ “My parents have given me quite a few.” Mostly his childhood favourites— including the old, well-loved family dictionary, which he still uses when writing on occasion. “There’s a bookshop just down the street, actually.” His biggest vice— when he comes into a little extra cash, it always ends up with the kind old man who always sits behind the counter. Eliott shrugs, “I’ve accumulated them, slowly but surely.”

Lucas comes over, standing beside him as they both scan back and forth across the shelves. “Which one’s your favourite?”

“Oh, Lucas,” Eliott shakes his head, “I couldn’t possibly… That’s like asking a musician for their favourite song, a painter for their favourite colour— It changes so frequently that I’m sure my answer today wouldn’t be the same as my answer tomorrow.” 

“Well, perhaps we could make a deal.” Lucas steps closer, tilting his head upward to look Eliott in the eye. He thinks for a moment that Lucas is going to press their lips together, in that teasing, feather-light way that he does. “I will play you my favourite song of today,” He gestures over to the piano, “And in exchange, you read me something from your favourite book of today. And if that changes by the time we see each other next, then we’ll do the same thing, all over again.” Eliott is, in short, floored at the proposal. He wants, now more than ever, to get inside Lucas’ brain, to figure out where all of his boldness, all of his beautiful ideas come from. 

He also wants, now more than ever, to kiss him.

The latter proves far easier than the former.

The kiss that he shares with Lucas has no intent, no direction. It is a kiss in the same way that rain is rain— there is nothing more to it, that is its very essence. 

At first, when the two of them started this… _thing,_ together, Eliott thought that his desire for kissing was a thirst to be quenched, a hunger to be sated. He thought that he would want, and Lucas would give, and he would be satisfied. But it’s quite the opposite, in fact— he wants, Lucas gives, and he wants _more._ He never seems to find himself satisfied, only longing. Instead of sating this beast of desire that sits heavy on his chest whenever Lucas is close— he only feeds into it.

He wonders how long it will be before his desire eats him whole.

“Is that a yes? Do you agree?” Lucas asks, pulling away, just a touch, and Eliott nods, having barely heard the question, too lost in his own thought. _Right— the piano._

“That’s a splendid idea.” Eliott finally responds. Then, “I didn’t know you played.”

“I have ever since I was a boy.” The image that provides is quite a delightful one. Eliott likes to tease Lucas for his height— or rather, lack thereof— even now, as adults. He can imagine a much shorter Lucas, trying his hardest to pull himself on to the bench, small feet not even close to reaching the pedals. Can imagine him tapping out notes in a slow, staccato manner; his mother ruffling his hair and kissing him on the cheek when he gets the song right.

He wonders what Lucas was like, as a child. He longs to see it.

“That’s surprising.” Eliott says, quiet, to himself. Lucas has heard him, though, and turns slightly from where he’s sat on the old, wooden bench. “ _You’re_ surprising.” Lucas raises an eyebrow. “I like people who are surprising.” The lighting is low— no overhead light, only a few lamps strategically scattered around the room— but Eliott sees what he thinks is the beginning of a blush, just as Lucas turns back toward the keys. “I don’t suppose you mind, if I skim my shelves for inspiration, while you play?”

“Not at all, so long as you listen.”

“Of course I’ll listen.”

Lucas taps out a few test notes, humming to himself as he does.

“For a piano that hasn’t been played in…” Lucas pauses, swiping at the dust blanketing the wood, “A while, it’s nearly in tune.”

Eliott laughs. “That’s good to hear.” In the moments that follow, Eliott partially regrets his decision to look through his shelves at the same time as Lucas plays— he feels himself immediately swept away with it. The song that Lucas plays is strangely familiar— slow, a walking-paced tune. Every note stands its own ground, a tree in a forest, a building in a city. There’s a wonderful contrast between the low and the high, to create the most intoxicating sense of depth Eliott thinks he’s ever heard.

Though he can’t be sure if it’s the song itself, or the effect that Lucas seems to have on him.

Eliott finds his book quickly— he had already had one in mind, before Lucas had began, turning back toward Lucas once he’s done. He finds himself flushing as he watches Lucas’ hands, and he can’t quite figure out why. Embarrassment, perhaps, for how easily Lucas draws him in— or for how long he wants to watch Lucas play. How desperately he wants him to continue.

Before he knows it, though, the final note rings out through the room. And just like that, the sounds of the world come tiptoeing back in— the cars driving by outside, couples laughing as they walk down the street, the sound of the rain. In the room, though, it is silent. In the room, Eliott finds himself once again afraid to break this moment, wants it to stretch on forever, where Lucas is sat down, his hands hovering above the keys, and Eliott is watching, watching, _watching._

But then, Lucas is the one to break the silence once more. He turns back around to face Eliott, a small, unsure smile on his face. “I love the negative space of it,” he says with a shrug. As if he’s that small boy that Eliott pictured moments ago.

“Negative space? What do you mean?”

“It’s slow enough, and the notes are sparse enough, that there’s room for each note to fade out, before the next takes its place. At times there’s no sound at all, brief as that may be.” Eliott quirks an eyebrow, intrigued at where Lucas’ train of thought is going. “I think songs, and books, and all art, really— it can be judged in the space that it takes up. But I also think it’s important to look at the space it _doesn’t,_ as well.” But then Lucas is shaking his head, waving his hand to shoo the thought away, saying, “I don’t know, that probably sounds absurd,” and Eliott wants to grab him, wants to shake him because—

“It’s beautiful. That’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard— both the piece itself, and your thoughts about it.” He steps closer, feels _pulled_ closer, by some force outside of himself. “You have such a wonderful mind, it baffles me. Lucas, I—” He almost says it, in that moment. It would be so _easy_ to, just three little words. But Eliott holds his tongue, says “You’re truly the most enchanting man I’ve ever met, in my entire life.” Says, “I want nothing more than to continue to get to know you like this.” Now Lucas is _definitely_ blushing as they look at one another, gazes finally unbroken, sure.

“You have me, Eliott.” And then Lucas is getting up, is coming closer, is sliding a careful arm around his waist, pulling the two of the close to each other. “You have me, and you can get to know me for as long as you want.”

“We’ll be here for a while, then,” Eliott says, reaching an arm of his own over, pulling Lucas flush against him. He kisses him, feels Lucas melt against him. He revels in it, in the little bit of power he seems to be getting back— Lucas may affect him with every touch, every _look,_ but he isn’t invincible, either.

He lets his hands roam over Lucas’ back, creeping down, down, down, before Lucas swats them away. “Hey, hey— you haven’t shown me your favourite of today, yet.” Lucas nods down toward the book in his hand— a small collection of Verlaine.

“Right, yes, of course.” He straightens himself up, opening to the page he wants as Lucas seats himself once more on the piano bench. “A promise is a promise.” He clears his throat and finds himself nervous.

He’s a poet by trade, has read work of his own to audiences of hundreds without so much as a quiver. So why now does he find himself trembling under Lucas’ gaze? He tries to snap himself out of it, and succeeds— albeit only partially— before lifting the book up just a bit higher, and beginning to read.

_‘Gently, let us steep our love_

_In the silence deep, as thus,_

_Branches arching high above_

_Twine their shadows over us.’_

Eliott pauses to breathe, watches Lucas— for a fraction of a second as he gets up from his seat— before he returns his attention to the words on the page.

_‘Let us blend our souls as one,_

_Hearts’ and senses’ ecstasies,’_

With every beat, every ebb and flow of the poem, Lucas takes a careful step closer.

_‘Evergreen, in unison_

_With the pines’ vague lethargies.’_

He finishes reading out the second stanza, as Lucas makes contact. It’s something so light, him nosing at the side of Eliott’s face, cheek gently brushing against cheek— but it steals the air out of Eliott’s lungs in one fell swoop. 

Nonetheless, he continues.

_‘Dim your eyes and, heart at rest,_

_Freed from all futile endeavor,’_

It’s almost as if Lucas is _trying_ to distract him from the poem, kissing along Eliott’s jawline— the touch of his lips almost light enough to be imagined— curling into his side where he stands. When he huffs out a breath, he can’t help but notice the way it shakes.

_‘Arms crossed on your slumbering breast,_

_Banish vain desire forever—’_

Just then, though, Lucas kisses his neck with just enough force, in _just_ the spot to pull a whimper out of Eliott’s throat— a pathetic, high-pitched little sound that’s embarrassing the moment it escapes him.

When he pulls away from Lucas, though, the embarrassment dies immediately. There is the most divine look of wonder on his face, the loveliest blush high on his cheeks.

“I thought I was supposed to read to you..?”

“I’m sorry, it was just,” Now it’s Lucas’ turn to huff out a frustrated breath. “Your voice, the way you were standing, the way the streetlamp was illuminating your face,” Lucas speaks as if these are objective facts, information that Eliott should already know. But he doesn’t and flushes deeply for it. Then Lucas steps in closer, kissing him soundly. “You’re irresistible, you know that? Positively irresistible.”

“You’re one to talk, _maestro_ ,” Eliott starts, perhaps telling the truth, perhaps deflecting. “Your focus, when you were playing? The song you chose? How well you played? If it had gone on a moment longer you would have made me weep, do you know that?” _That_ part, though, is the truth. Lucas’ playing was a testament to how skilled he is, how much he loves to play, sure— but to Eliott, it was also a testament to how taken he is with Lucas, and only after such a short time. He looks at Lucas, as he thinks of him, and the look on Lucas’ face is beautiful and unreadable, and Eliott is unsure if he said too much, but then—

“I love you.”

Lucas’ words hang there in the air between them.

And then Lucas continues, faster than before, almost panicked, “It’s quite alright if you don’t feel the same, then we can just keep doing what we’ve been doing without any sort of substance to it, without any label— but I care very very deeply for you, and I needed you to know that.” Now Lucas has cast his gaze down toward his feet— and so he doesn’t see Eliott start to frantically shake his head, “If I’m being presumptuous, _please_ let me know, because you’re the first man I’ve ever felt anything like this for,” And so Eliott takes measures into his own hands— or, rather, Lucas’ face into his own hands just as he says— “ever felt anything at _all_ for and—” Then he cuts him off with a kiss. It’s bolder than anything he’s ever done, he thinks, something right out of that romance film he saw the other week in the theatre with his friends.

Though he’s wanted to say it since the moment he first saw Lucas, all of those weeks ago, he finally lets the words loose— “I love you too.” Beautiful and terrifying and _certain_ , and they kiss— though he isn’t sure who initiates, this time— again, and again, and again. “Lucas, you’re the first man I’ve ever felt this for, too, you know that?” The ground is less uneven than Lucas seems to think, because— “I’ve had girlfriends, sure, but I haven’t felt anything like this for any of them,” And because— “I’ve never felt anything like this, _ever._ ”

“Neither have I.”

This time, when Lucas kisses him, Eliott doesn’t let him get away. He holds him fast in his grip, lets his hand roam with a life of their own. He swallows all of the sounds that Lucas makes, lets Lucas do the same with his; is both selfless and selfish with the boy he wants all of, the boy he would do anything for.

Bare skin meets bare skin as the rain continues to fall outside.

**Author's Note:**

> for those language nerds— whoever you may be— who are saying 'but em, the word _petrichor_ wasn't coined until the 60s!'  
> first of all, props for picking up on that; second, it's my AU and i can do what i want babey!!


End file.
